


With Nothing Left To Prove

by Guardian_Rose



Series: A String Of Moments Makes A Life [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, This is a sort of get together?, acknowledged it, maybe? - Freeform, so?, sort of they've been in this relationship but never like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:19:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Rose/pseuds/Guardian_Rose
Summary: “I don’t want to make you stay, my dear,” Aziraphale says and Crowley wants to shake the angel again, loosen the explanation out of him.He’s tired. Crowley is tired after a day of mostly finding excuses not to bother Aziraphale early and now he’s here and now he’s almost out the door and now...why now?Aziraphale turns away from him. The put upon cheer after their...something just now is vanishing swiftly. He stares at the mug on the desk, probably cocoa. Crowley can’t leave him like this. Can’t bring himself to take the step out the door. Aziraphale is spiralling and now so is he.





	With Nothing Left To Prove

In all of their six thousand years, Aziraphale has not once explicitly stated what this Thing is between them. Crowley had never intended for a Thing to exist in the first place so when he’d realised that he had fallen head first, not his normal controlled stroll or saunter, into this Thing he never had a hope that Aziraphale might feel the same. That, in this unexpected way, Aziraphale might have fallen too. So it was a whole heap of shock on the day when Crowley realised that this Thing wasn’t just made up of him. That Aziraphale was invested as he was. So he waited to see if Aziraphale would bring it up in conversation, would mention it or question it. He is still waiting. 

 

At least…

 

He’s been waiting and now Aziraphale is talking about an ‘us’ and choices. The angel is practically spiralling and Crowley doesn’t understand why. Why now? Why is he scared  _ now _ ?

 

The antichrist- Adam is safe. The world is safe. They are safe. Heaven and Hell are off their backs indefinitely. They’ve lived six thousand years in more treacherous circumstances than the ones they now find themselves in, so why is Aziraphale asking him whether he wants to go back? 

 

“I don’t want to make you stay, my dear,” Aziraphale says and Crowley wants to shake the angel again, loosen the explanation out of him.

 

He’s tired. Crowley is tired after a day of mostly finding excuses not to bother Aziraphale early and now he’s here and now he’s almost out the door and now...why now?

 

Aziraphale turns away from him. The put upon cheer after their...something just now is vanishing swiftly. He stares at the mug on the desk, probably cocoa. Crowley can’t leave him like this. Can’t bring himself to take the step out the door. Aziraphale is spiralling and now so is he. 

 

He lets the door go, the bell not even finished ringing from when he’d opened it seconds before. He almost knocks the sticking out pile of books from the table but swerves at the last moment. He slides his hands around Aziraphale’s chest, one hand linking their fingers together, the other dipping a thumb into the angel’s waistcoat pocket under the jacket. Eyes closed, he drops his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

 

“I’m not leaving either, angel.”

 

“I’ve made rather a mess of this evening, haven’t I?” Aziraphale says, it would be a mumble but the angel’s far too well-spoken to allow such a thing.

 

Crowley hums and tries not to overthink what it means that Aziraphale leans back against his chest. They don’t do this. Not really. Not unless something awful has happened and this most definitely hasn’t shown any signs of being one of their  _ awful _ fights. No slammed doors or screaming or insults. So why does it feel like they’re on the edge of a cliff?

 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “I’m glad you don’t want to go back and do it again. I am. I know I don’t want to either.”

 

“Then why ask?” Crowley doesn’t let him answer, realises halfway through asking that he’s asked before. “No, I know, I know you’re worried about something. I just don’t understand why.”

 

“Because...Because we choose each other, over and over again yet we don’t…”

 

Crowley picks up where the angel leaves off, understanding finally clicking everything into place, “and yet we don’t own up to it.”

 

Aziraphale's nod displaces Crowley from his shoulder. So he uses the opportunity to push and pull until Aziraphale is facing him, his hands fluttering across his waistcoat buttons whilst Crowley watches, hands in his own pockets to stop from reaching out again. He doesn’t want to push it. But he’s still the one to start talking again, Aziraphale meeting his gaze with that bastard stubbornness that Crowley knows so well. The angel may be nervous but he’s determined to see it through now they’ve started. It’s always been Crowley who backs off, who backs out. He’s not sure, now he thinks about it, when that became the norm. He asks once but he backs off with barely a fight. Over and over again. 

 

“How long have you known?” Crowley asks; seems a safe place to start, he has his guesses but he’d rather be sure. 

 

Aziraphale’s answer is void of hesitation. Is forward and honest. “The blitz. In the church.”

 

“When I saved the books,” Crowley nods, taking a moment to think.

 

“When did you know?” Aziraphale asks, smiling slightly when Crowley looks away reflexively before remembering that this is a Serious Conversation and eye contact is probably a requisite.

 

“Not sure,” he says, nonchalant or close to nonchalant, “maybe Rome? With the oysters. Maybe before.” He shrugs one shoulder.

 

Aziraphale’s look is considering, like he’s viewing their years all over again with this new perspective. In reality, he’s trying to decide which words are going to be best to explain that he’s actually a little annoyed that Crowley never  _ said  _ anything until this whole antichrist thing started eleven years ago. 

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

 

Crowley frowns a little. “I thought you knew, for a long while. It took me long enough to rationalise it myself, to accept it. Then you told me how I ‘go too fast’ for you and that’s when I realised that you’d caught up at last. That you  _ actually _ knew this time.”

 

“So you’ve been waiting? No offense, my dear, but you aren’t renowned for your patience.” Aziraphale’s smile is very fetching, even if it’s at Crowley’s expense. 

 

“Well you could have said something too.” Crowley rolls his eyes, moving to pace a couple steps, expel some of this building energy only to be stopped by Aziraphale grabbing his arms.

 

“I didn’t know how.”

 

“I stand by what I said last week,” Crowley can’t help the sneer, narrowing his eyes even though he knows it’s pointless with this angel, “you are exceedingly stupid for someone so smart.”

 

Aziraphale’s smile grows and Crowley hates a little part of himself when he smiles back, just a little. A quirk of the lips. Aziraphale is practically glowing now, his cheeks dusted a rosey pink and Crowley wants to go back to when he wasn’t having to face this full-on, when he could hide behind his sunglasses or the angel’s own shoulder. Something must show in his face because the next thing he knows he’s being  _ held _ by Aziraphale, a hand on the back of his head, letting him hide where he’d wished to be just a thought ago. 

 

“I chose Our Side too, Crowley,” Aziraphale says and Crowley wraps his arms under the angel’s jacket, “I chose us too. I chose This.”

 

Crowley jerks back, fingers nearly clutching Aziraphale’s waistcoat at his waist, holding them that short distance apart so he can scan Aziraphale’s eyes for the truth. Not that Aziraphale lies to him. Not that Crowley lies to Aziraphale either. Not really. 

 

“You’re a bastard,” he says, “you know that, angel?”

 

Aziraphale’s laugh is preceded by a soft kiss on the cheek. Then another. Crowley stops him from adding a third by holding Aziraphale’s face in his hands, marvelling at this beautiful being before him. He could happily do so for another six thousand years. 

 

“I do believe you owe me a picnic,” Crowley says, “now that you’re up to speed.” 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So! This is a sort of part 2 to 'One Solitary, Mundane Moment' as sort of requested! Hope it lives up to hopes and dreams. 
> 
> I may continue this series in order to continue working out characterisation, making it consistent across fics. Let me know if there's anything you wanna read and I shall see what I can do :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> No beta, all mistakes my own
> 
> Prompts welcome here and on my writing tumblr [WordToTheRose (Previously TheWordForest)](https://wordtotherose.tumblr.com/) or come say hi on my main [Guardian-Rose-Petal](https://guardian-rose-petal.tumblr.com/)


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